Temple House :: :: University of Virginia Library

The severity of the weather rather than the state
of her mind kept Tempe within doors for several
weeks. Outside the snow, consolidated by repeated
storms, settled round the foundations of the house,
and spread a thick, icy sheet over the grounds, binding
all things under its white silence. Inside, the
silence was almost as absolute: Tempe more than
once observed, “You might cut it with a knife.”
Her occupation was confined to keeping herself
warm, and the stripping of carpet rags for Roxalana's
rugs. Virginia Brande could no longer come by the
Forge path, but rode through town to visit them:
Mrs. Brande occasionally dispensed with her attentions,
and allowed her to stay several hours. After
these visits, despite the monotonous winter landscape,
locked in frost, it seemed to Virginia as if she
travelled home on a rainbow, which, flushing Argus's
door, faded when she reached her own. Could the
green room, and the limited scope of Argus, Roxalana
and Tempe,—contracted beings, whose existence
appeared as monotonous as the gray, wintry
sky—have suggested it?

“Missey,” asked Chloe, one day, upon her return
from Temple House, “How does they contrive to
keep that old barn warm enough to live in?”

“Chloe, I am surprised at you,” she answered, in
an injured tone. “It is warmer than our house, and
the heat is more pleasant.”

“I have surprised missey,” said Chloe, laughing
loud, “but she knows that no man, woman, or chile
can keep warm in Argus Gates's house. Why, he
is an icicle himself.”

Virginia observing Chloe, as she adjusted the polished
fire-irons of the polished handsome grate, contrasted
it with the fireside of Temple House; she
pictured Argus thrusting the embers against the
brass dogs in the deep jambs of the chimney, and
Roxalana watching the fitful blaze, while Tempe,
wrapped in a shawl, pretended to be suffocated with
the smoke, which the wind, roaring down the chimney,
sent into the room in little puffs.

“I like the smell of a wood fire,” she exclaimed.

“Ashes is beautiful, to litter up a nice hearth, and
smoke is wholesome for—ham.”

Of late, when the days were cold, and she had visited
Temple House, Argus had asked for coffee, and
brought it to her in the egg-shell china cups she
thought so beautiful; the last time he handed one
he split the coffee on her dress.

“I wish I had my wine-colored cashmere on to-day,
Chloe!”

“I wonder at that; the dress is a month old.
Missis even moved these yer vases, while nobody was
here; I wish she wouldn't move every piece of furniture
about, when she is left alone.”

“I wish there were coffee cups instead.”

“The closet is ram jam full of coffee cups; don't
follow Missis, now, and put a row up here. Massy!
if she hasn't put the books in upside down!”

Virginia glanced at a stately book-case, filled with
religious memoirs and commentaries.

“I would rather have a British Classic than these
solid pounds of mind.”

“So would I, indeed,” Chloe replied, taken with
the title; “how big be they?”

Virginia smiled absently, and said, “He often has
one in his hand.”

“Missey, you are coming down with a cold, sure.
Were you up last night much? Scuttle to your
room now you have a chance; I'll hold up the
house.”

“Thank you, Chloe, but it rests me to stay with
you. Do you mind my dropping to pieces for a
few minutes? Tell me, Chloe, why am I more free
with you, poor soul,—than with anybody else?”

While she spoke Chloe moved a hearth-brush to
and fro, as if she heard music.

“I hope the Lord knows,” she replied, “I don't;
I know nothing at all,—never did,—hope I never
shall!”

“Hear me breathe, Chloe.”

And Virginia sighed from the bottom of her
heart. Then she walked rapidly across the room,
with parted lips and hands knit together; her warm,
brown eyes were full of sweet feeling, her attitude
was beseeching.

“I dare the Brandes to come in now,” muttered

Chloe; “they must see she belongs to the world's
people, after all.” And her ears were on the alert
for the slightest sound without.

“What?” said Virginia sharply, her manner
changing. “I must go to mother. I have not
forgot how long I have left her.”

Chloe groaned.

“My mother was a Gay Head Indian,” she said,
“I am half Indian too; that's what makes my
hair straight. Please excuse my bad blood, and let
me advise you, Miss Virginny,—don't take on so
about your dam worthless mother.”

Virginia put her hand over Chloe's mouth and
passed out.

No other visitor disturbed Tempe's monotony for
a long time, except Mr. Drake, who made one nervous
call to inquire about her health, and present her
with a dozen oranges. She also received several
notes from Caroline, which she endeavored to answer
with the spirit they were written in, but falling short
of it, she sent no replies. When one's atmosphere
is monotonous the scythe of time seems stationary;
even the hours stand still against its edge: cloudless
summer days, with their unsparing sunshine,
starless shadows, and soundless airs, at last grow to
be wearisome. So with the present ice-bound seaon,
which Tempe fancied held her in thrall. Even
Argus and Roxalana began to mention spring.
Virginia alone would have prolonged the period,
which, according to her belief, she thought providential
in her behalf.

Mat Sutcliffe announced to Argus one morning
that spring had come. The ice on the shores and
inside the bay was giving way. And he asked Argus
if gales were not to be looked for? They compared
notes about the weather, and concluded to
look for southerly storms.

The weather softened so that very day that Tempe
threw aside her shawl, and Roxalana made the tour
of all the rooms, and by way of a walk went up to
the attic to look over the fields and bay. She remarked
to Argus, on coming down, that she had
never seen the White Flat so plainly; it appeared
to be stretching across the harbor's mouth.

“The ice made it look so, probably,” he replied.

The snow around the house began to melt, and in
the stillness they heard the water trickling everywhere.

“Soon,” said Roxalana, “the buds will begin to
swell.”

At sunset the day looked spungy and rotten.
Masses of vapor rolled up from the south, and extinguished
a pale, brassy band of light in the west: and
a strange wind rose in the upper air, and closed with
night.

Early in the evening Argus shook the iron bars of
the shutters on the harbor side, and fastened them;
he foresaw the storm, and would have shut out its
fury for Roxalana's sake, who appeared perturbed
and melancholy as if disasters at sea were threatened.

“The wind must be rising,” she said, holding up
her hand; “I feel streams of air from everywhere.
The candles flare: but I don't hear the surf.”

“You will hear it presently,” he replied.

“I don't care if it blows half the town down,” said
Tempe.

“Don't spare the other half: let the whole go, and
be damned!”

A tremendous hiss passed through the crevices of
the outer doors, which was met by a roar in the chimney.
As irruption of white, flaky ashes occurred
and covered the hearth. Next, the roof and walls
of the house were taken as a coign of vantage, by
the shrinking wind to hang out its viewless banners,
which shivered, flapped, and tore to tatters in raging
impotence.

“We must put out this fire, Argus,” said Roxalana,
“or we shall be on fire inside the house.”

“Better put yourselves in bed; I will take care of
the fire.”

Acting upon this suggestion, they left him alone.
A short time afterwards he went out on the lawn.
The dull thunder of the surf now broke so furiously
on the bar that the ground beneath his feet reverberated.

“The bay is champing its jaws on that devilish
White Flat, and any sail coming this way is lost.”

Looking overhead he discovered in the milky
darkness of the obscured moon deep vague rifts in
the sky, like the chasm in Orion. The frenzied, over
driven spirits of the storm took refuge in the piling
tumbling folds of the clouds, which seemed to be
falling into the abyss. While he stood there, the
elms bowed from bole to topmost bough, brushed

his face as if they paid him homage. No sound
came from the town side; he could not see a single
light. Opposite the lawn King's Hill reared its black
summit; from thence, if he clomb, he could obtain a
view of the wailing, howling bay, and,—perchance
of some vessel seeking harbor. He preferred to go
back and shut himself up in the house.